


Catalogue

by knockoutmouse



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dubious Consent, Eventual Happy Ending, Friendship, Gender Dysphoria, Headcanon: Henchperson is autistic, Henchperson is called Rory, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Other, Power Imbalance, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Takes place circa Penultimate PerilAU where Fernald doesn't leave Olaf and is present at the Hotel Denouement. The rest of the troupe returns to find him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JCMorrigan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCMorrigan/gifts).



> The theatre troupe, except Fernald, left during The Slippery Slope, as in canon. Fernald, however, did NOT leave after The Grim Grotto.
> 
> Henchperson = Rory
> 
> Bald Man = Arturo
> 
> White Faced Women = Jenny and Elvira

The lobby of the Hotel Denouement was crowded, filled with guests moving in every direction, past each other, to the reception desk, out the doors, into and out of the elevators. It was an almost overwhelming blur, the room abuzz with myriad overlapping conversations, and beneath all the usual crowd noises, a curious tension hung in the air. 

The enormous clock chimed, so deep and _big_ that you could feel it through the floor. Rory started at the excessive volume of the sudden sound.

“This way.” Arturo nodded toward the opposite side of the room, and started in that direction. It was easy enough for _him_. He could sweep through the crowd of people, tall and imposing and confident. And presumably Arturo didn’t mind the press of the crowd, brushing against the bodies of strangers, accidental touches that lingered on the skin long after the actual moment of contact had passed. 

Maybe if they kept close behind Arturo before the crowd closed back in--no, they’d waited too long already. They frowned. They used to be able to force themselves to do this when Olaf ordered it, and now they couldn’t, and it was totally ridiculous and pathetic, and Arturo was already halfway across the lobby, and--

“Would you, dear?” asked Elvira, next to them.

“Huh?”

She offered her hand, which Rory took, although they weren’t sure why. “Crowds can be so unforgiving,” she said, exchanging a significant look with Jenny. “People walk right over old ladies like us.”

“Yes,” agreed Jenny quickly. “It’s always much easier with a--with someone who’s--” She paused, just for a second, as if considering her words. “Safety in numbers,” she amended.

“Oh,” said Rory. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Jenny took hold of their other arm. “So kind of you--” she began.

“--to help us like this,” finished Elvira.

The three of them made their way across the room, the twins clinging to Rory. Any annoyance they’d felt at the transparent excuse faded away when a chubby man with a bowtie and disheveled hair barreled right into Jenny, nearly knocking her off her feet and murmuring a hasty apology without looking back. 

Arturo had reached the other side of the room, and now stood, beckoning to them impatiently.

“Is it just me--” said Jenny.

“Or was that--” continued Elvira.

“Vice Principal Nero?” the two of them chorused.

“Was it?” said Rory. They’d only caught a brief glimpse, but come to think of it, the man had looked vaguely familiar, and that was definitely Nero’s hairstyle.

“That’s not the only familiar face here,” said Elvira, nodding to a brunette woman seated on one of the green brocade sofas, who was reading, or pretending to read, a magazine with a cover story about recent advances in filing medical paperwork.

“And look over there,” murmured Jenny, gesturing with her elbow toward a man with a pinstriped suit and a thin moustache. 

The crowd was a swirling sea, too many people who looked faintly familiar--perhaps more than faintly, but Rory had never been very good with faces. 

“Does that mean we’ve come to the right place?” they asked.

The twins looked at each other, looked up at Rory, and, slowly, nodded in unison. 

“We’d better not waste any more time, then,” they said, and finally, the three of them caught up to Arturo. 

“They’ve got to be here,” Rory told him. 

“We saw that vice principal,” said Jenny.

“And Esme’s husband,” said Elvira.

“And the HR lady from the hospital,” Rory realized out loud. They’d thought she was dead for sure after Olaf and the fire. 

“So Olaf must be here somewhere,” concluded Elvira triumphantly. 

“And Esme,” added Arturo with a dreamy expression.

“And that little girl from the Snow Scouts,” said Jenny, rather less enthusiastically.

“And--” Rory couldn’t finish the sentence. He had to be here, _had_ to--

“We’ll find him,” Jenny reassured them.

“Let’s split up,” suggested Arturo. 

“There’s nine stories,” said Jenny.

“Plus the roof,” added Elvira.

“Minus the ground floor,” said Rory, “which we’ve already covered.”

“Plus the basement,” Arturo pointed out.

“So,” said Rory, trying to do the math in their head, “that makes seven levels that we still--”

“Ten,” corrected Elvira.

“Right. Ten levels that we still need to check,” Rory amended.

“How about we each take three--” said Jenny.

“--and meet up in the basement after?” continued Elvira.

“I’ll start on the roof and work my way down,” said Arturo.

“We’ll take the middle floors,” the twins volunteered.

That was how Rory ended up wandering the halls of the second floor, where some sort of religious conference seemed to be taking place, members of the clergy milling around the hallway outside a large ballroom. 

Rory tried to suppress the sudden spike of panic in their chest. It was fine, everything would be fine, nobody here was going to pay any attention to them, and they must have imagined that disapproving look from the man who’d just passed them. They made their way down the hallway, scurrying out of the way of a priest and a rabbi walking along together, deeply engaged in conversation. God, this felt like the beginning to some off-color joke-- _a priest and a rabbi walk into a bar--a priest and a rabbi and a man in a dress--_

_No. Stop it_ , they admonished themselves. That wasn’t what they were, even if that is what some people saw, or chose to see.

In any case, surely Fernald wouldn’t be on this floor. They’d never known him to be particularly religious. Then again, there was that time that Olaf had worn a turban as a disguise and claimed it was for religious purposes. Although they’d found that to be morally objectionable, it was possible that he might do the same thing again. 

“Are you lost, my child?”

Rory turned quickly and found themselves facing an elderly woman in brightly colored robes.

“You mean, like, spiritually, or…?”

The woman smiled faintly. “Actually I mean lost in a more literal sense. I don’t mean to intrude, but you seemed…” She gestured as if seeking a polite phrase.

“Out of place,’ they supplied. “I know.”

“I was going to say it seemed as if you were looking for someone,” replied the woman gently.

“Oh. Yes. I am.” Maybe she could help after all. “I’m trying to find my friend. He probably isn’t here, but...if you’ve seen him, he’s very tall, and bald, and...has hooks instead of hands.” It sounded terribly blunt and insensitive when they said it aloud that way, but really, there was no getting around that fact when trying to describe him.

“He’s not on this floor.”

“I didn’t figure. Thanks.” Rory turned to walk away and continue their search before her words sank in, and they whirled back around. “Wait!”

The woman inclined her head placidly. “Yes?”

“You--you have seen him, then?” Their heart was racing--if he really was in the hotel, they were so close to finding him--

“Just in the elevator this morning,” she said. “I couldn’t tell you where he’s at now.”

“Thank you!” called Rory over their shoulder, already taking off at a sprint toward the staircase. 

The hallways of the third floor were adorned with maps and landscapes, and the clientele there seemed more of a mix--people in military uniform, police officers, a woman in judge’s robes, whose face was also naggingly familiar. And at the very end of the hallway, his back to them as he locked, or perhaps unlocked, the door to room 301, there was Fernald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Just to be clear, the whole second floor thing is because the 200s of the Dewey Decimal System is religion, not the author randomly trying to shoehorn in any anti-religion views.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this escalated quickly
> 
> This chapter contains dubcon/noncon and a bunch of angst

It hadn’t been easy for Fernald to convince Olaf to let Fiona go--and to let her take the _Queequeg_ , no less. But he’d done it. 

Within minutes of breaking out of the brig, Fernald and Fiona had run smack into Esme and Olaf on their way back to the _Queequeg_. Esme, of course, had vocally demanded the pleasure of killing them both herself. When Fernald saw Olaf’s momentary hesitation, he’d turned his most pleading look on his boss and begged to talk to him alone, just for a minute. Against all expectation, Olaf had agreed.

Locked inside the brig with Olaf, Fernald had asked, hoping that he was telegraphing his intentions as obviously as possible, whether there was _anything else at all_ he could do to convince Olaf to change his mind. Olaf’s eyebrows, or rather eye _brow_ , had slowly risen, and then he’d pushed Fernald to his knees and begun to unzip his pants. This wasn't...okay, yes, this actually _was_ what he’d been getting at, but he’d never in a million years expected that Olaf would actually take him up on it--never believed, any of the innumerable times he’d fantasized about this exact scenario, that it would actually happen. 

Fernald had started off gently, trailing light kisses up the underside of his cock. Olaf glared down at him, harsh and cold and unfeeling. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Fernald could only gaze up at him uncomprehendingly, and before he knew it, Olaf had curled one bony hand around the back of his head in an unforgiving grip. The next instant, Olaf shoved his hard cock into Fernald’s mouth, bruising his lips, ramming down his throat. For a panicked moment, he felt as though he were suffocating, but then he managed quick, desperate breaths through the nose in between Olaf’s movements. 

His jaw ached, his eyes watered, and he choked every time Olaf thrust too deep--which was _every_ time, because Olaf was certainly doing it on purpose. He was going to be sick--but he couldn’t, he mustn’t, this was his only chance to save himself and, more importantly, his sister. Besides, this was what he’d wanted. Maybe not exactly how he’d envisioned it happening, but the general idea was the same, wasn’t it? 

Fernald closed his eyes and did his best to pretend that he was somewhere else--anywhere else. Olaf’s sharp fingernails dug into his skin, forcing him down further on his cock. It was more than he could handle, and he couldn’t _breathe_ \--and then Olaf hastily pulled out of his mouth and came over his face. 

For a moment, the room held a silent tableau--Fernald on his knees, gazing pleadingly up at Olaf, and Olaf glaring down at him contemptuously.

Finally, Fernald broke the silence. “Please don’t hurt my sister,” he whispered. It hurt to speak; his throat was raw. 

Olaf turned and stalked out of the room without a word. But he didn’t lock the door behind him, which was a promising sign. Fernald hurriedly wiped his face with the sleeve of his uniform, took a few deep breaths to compose himself, and made his way to the main room.

As he neared the end of the corridor, his step slowed, and he found that he couldn’t go through the doorway. Fiona was still in that room with Esme, and he couldn’t face her now. He remained concealed in the shadowy hallway, listening to Olaf’s rather vague explanation of why he’d decided to give Fernald another chance--something about how he’d been an exemplary--er, _adequate_ \--henchman until Fiona had shown up.

“Where’s my brother?” cried Fiona.

“He told me he didn’t care what I did with you,” lied Olaf, and Fernald’s heart sank even further. “He said I could go ahead and kill you, as long as he didn’t have to see your face and those absurd glasses again. I must admit, I was so shocked by his heartless cruelty that I began to take pity on you.”

Fernald knew, if he were a good person, he wouldn’t keep hiding here and letting Olaf tell his sister such terrible, malicious lies. But he also knew that he wasn’t a good person, or even a strong person. Who knew what Olaf might do if Fernald interfered with his plans any further? He could change his mind again and kill them both after all. Besides, Fiona was better off without Fernald in her life. He’d only keep dragging her into terrible situations like this, so it was for her own good if she hated him and never wanted to see him again.

“Get her out of here,” Olaf ordered Esme. “Put her back on her pathetic little submarine and throw her out.”

“Come on, you little _bitch_ ,” sneered Esme. “You heard him. Let’s go.”

That had been--only yesterday? Everything since then had been something of a blur--he was cold and numb and just-- _blank_. He couldn’t bring himself to think about what they were doing in the Hotel Denouement, let alone any question of right or wrong. The only thing that mattered was that Olaf had let Fiona go, unharmed. It didn’t matter if she thought he’d betrayed her once again. It didn’t matter what price he’d paid, and would continue to pay, for her safety. 

Olaf had made it clear that he still didn’t trust Fernald one bit--he hadn’t let him out of his sight for a second, until just now, and even then, he’d leaned in close so Esme couldn’t hear and whispered to Fernald just what he could expect from Olaf later that night.

Now, Olaf had ordered him to go secure the basement laundry room, so secure he would. Exactly what that might entail, he wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t his place to question his orders. 

Fernald finished locking the door of his room, turned around, and froze. 

Rory was the last person he’d expected to see here, and judging by the way they hurried down the hall toward him, their presence in the Hotel Denouement was no coincidence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some canon-typical violence

When Fernald turned and caught sight of Rory, they weren’t sure what to make of his expression. It seemed almost as if he didn’t want to see them. Then again, he probably didn’t--after all, he probably wanted nothing to do with the rest of the troupe after they’d all walked off the job.

“What are you doing here?” Fernald demanded, his voice rough.

“We came to get you,” said Rory. “Well, at least to find you, and see if you were okay, and you can come with us if you want--”

“We? You mean the others are here, too?”

Rory nodded. They were glad they’d been the one to find him first, although they wouldn’t say so out loud. 

Fernald scowled. “I’m fine. You’re wasting your time. Go away.” 

It almost worked. Rory was easily swayed by others, and they knew it, and they knew Fernald knew it too. They began to turn away obediently when it occurred to them that they didn’t actually have to do as he said. At the same moment, Fernald said, guiltily, “Wait.”

Rory turned back to face him. “Yeah?”

“Look,” said Fernald. He seemed to be struggling with some sort of internal conflict, and sighed before he went on. “I appreciate the gesture, but you’re in over your head. You have to go--all of you. No matter what you’ve been told, it isn’t safe here.”

“If we’re not safe,” said Rory, “then neither are you. You shouldn’t stay.”

“You don’t understand!” snapped Fernald, and Rory automatically recoiled at his harsh tone.

Fernald paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I’m sorry. But you’ve got to get out of here. If Olaf sees me talking to you--” He shook his head. “It’s dangerous.”

“For me or for you?” asked Rory.

“Both of us,” said Fernald, “but I’m not worried about myself.”

“Fernald...please,” they said gently. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Nobody has to do anything,” said Fernald bitterly. “Or maybe they do. Who knows? I don’t think I believe in free will anymore.”

This was so unlike the Fernald they’d known only a few days ago. “What happened?” they asked.

“Hooky!” bellowed an all-too-familiar voice from the open door of the room across the hall. Fernald sagged visibly. “And--and _you_ ,” said Olaf in distaste, glaring at Rory as he strode up to the two of them. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Nothing, boss,” said Fernald quickly. “I was just telling them to get lost.”

“Yes, well,” said Olaf, with a seemingly careless glance down the hallway, which, Rory realized suddenly, was now alarmingly empty. “There is a very convenient window right there, isn’t there?”

It took Rory a second to work out what Olaf meant. Apparently, it took Fernald a second, too. 

“Boss, no!” he protested. “I can’t do that!”

Olaf scoffed. “I don’t know what I expected. If I couldn’t even count on you to kill an infant--”

“Toddler,” Fernald corrected. 

“A toddler, as I said,” Olaf agreed with a murderous glare. “I’ll just have to handle this myself.” He started toward Rory, who began to back away.

“Please!” said Fernald. “They won’t do anything to interfere, I swear it. They were just leaving.”

“I believe you made a similar promise yourself just yesterday,” said Olaf dangerously. “And the minute I let you out of my sight, I find you consorting with a known enemy!”

“You’re framing this in really militaristic terms,” Rory pointed out. “Just because we terminated our employer-employee relationship doesn’t mean we’re enemies. Then again, if you think of it that way, perhaps that only serves as a further indictment of the capitalist system of--”

“Enough!” shouted Olaf. “You, stop talking. _You_ \--” He turned to Fernald. “It seems I made a mistake in giving you another chance. I suppose I have only myself and my generous, forgiving nature to blame.”

“Boss--” Fernald didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Olaf seized him by the arm and shoved him through the still-open doorway that he himself had just stepped out of. 

“You too,” Olaf ordered. 

“No way,” said Rory. It didn’t come naturally to them, but they had to stand up for themselves--and for Fernald. “I don’t work for you anymore.”

They hadn’t thought that would work. And it didn’t. Olaf slapped them hard across the face, and as they stood there in total shock, he pushed them through the doorway after Fernald.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olaf talks a big game when it comes to his knife, but can he back it up?
> 
> The answer here is yes
> 
> Graphic violence in this chapter

Rory stumbled into the room and collided with the wall. It left them dazed, and before they could react, Fernald had moved in between them and Olaf.

“Is that really how you want this to end, Hooky?” growled Olaf. Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a knife with a long, curved blade. “You want to play the hero? How foolishly noble of you.”

“I will if I have to,” said Fernald. Rory marveled at how sure of himself he sounded. They knew they wouldn’t have, had they been in his position. “You can’t keep hurting people I care about.”

“Don’t,” pleaded Rory. Their voice had shrunk to a whisper. Fernald had tried to warn them, but they hadn’t listened, and now he was in even more trouble because of them. 

Olaf made a feint toward the left, and Fernald fell for it, lunging in that direction as Olaf slipped past him on the other side, his movements almost like a dance. 

Rory didn’t realize what Olaf was doing until he seized them by the collar and forced them to their knees, and they felt the knife at their throat. 

“Oh, but I _can_ ,” said Olaf.

Fernald stood motionless, his eyes wide. “Boss…you wouldn’t.”

Olaf smirked. “Haven’t you known me long enough to realize that isn’t true? Despite _your_ weakness, I have no problem causing harm to a child, or a woman, or...whatever you are,” he added, nudging Rory in the back with his knee, forcing them forward, the cold metal of his knife pressing into their skin.

Fernald shook his head. “Please, no.”

Olaf trailed the blade down Rory’s throat, across their shoulder--and suddenly, he pushed down harder. They gasped at the burning sting as the knife punctured their skin.

“No!” cried Fernald. “Stop it. I’ll--I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Olaf irritably. “Do you really think that’s going to work on me again? Besides,” he added with a sneer, “you weren’t even that good.”

“Please,” begged Fernald. “Don’t hurt them.”

“This is what happens when you betray me, Hooky.” The knife sliced across Rory’s chest, blood staining their dress in its wake. It hurt, but they couldn’t speak, could only listen to their own harsh breathing and Fernald’s pleas.

“Stop! Please! Do it to me instead.”

“That wouldn’t be any fun,” said Olaf. “I must admit, half the entertainment in this is your reaction. This one doesn’t react to anything.” His fingers dug into their shoulder painfully hard as he wiped the flat of the blade against their throat, smearing blood over their skin. “See?”

“Don’t--don’t.” Fernald’s voice was desperate, close to breaking.

Olaf leaned down to address Rory. “I’ve always wondered--are you that good at hiding your feelings? Or don’t you have any to begin with?”   
Rory couldn’t answer--could barely breathe, and they were distantly aware that they were crying. 

“But surely,” said Olaf, “we can change that with a little pain. How much will it take, I wonder?” The knife cut deep into their arm, and the room grew very warm as their vision began to waver. Somewhere in the distance, Fernald was screaming words that they couldn’t make out, and then, suddenly, the pressure let up. 

Someone was knocking on the door. Olaf paused. 

“Darling,” called Esme from the hallway. “Aren’t you coming? Our precious daughter misses her daddy.”

Olaf took a moment to compose his expression into something that resembled, horrifyingly, a smile. “Just a moment, dear.” The smile instantly dissolved, and he turned to Fernald. “Get in there,” he ordered, pointing to the bathroom door with his knife. “Both of you. We’ll finish this later.”

Fernald raised his hooks in surrender as he backed through the doorway. Olaf gave Rory a shove in Fernald’s direction. Since they were already on their knees, that only made them collapse to the floor. Fernald moved forward as if to help them, but Olaf advanced on them with his knife.

“Move!” he snarled, and Rory managed to scramble through the doorway fast enough to dodge a kick from Olaf. 

The bathroom door slammed shut, followed by the click of a lock.


	5. Chapter 5

Rory and Fernald huddled close together on the tile floor, clinging to each other in terrified silence until they heard the outer door of the suite fall closed.

“Are you okay?” asked Fernald. “I mean, no, obviously not,” he added quickly. “How--how bad is it?”

Rory couldn’t speak. They needed to answer him, to reassure him, but somehow they couldn’t seem to stop crying, hideous gulping sobs as they hid their face against Fernald’s shoulder.

Fernald shifted his position without letting go of them, still holding them close with one arm as he leaned to one side, made a sudden movement, and swore in frustration. 

Rory looked up in time to see Fernald retrieve a bath towel from where he’d knocked it to the floor. He offered it to them, and they pressed it to their bleeding arm, immediately staining the white terrycloth red. 

“It’s okay,” murmured Fernald. “It’s okay, I promise. I won’t--I won’t let--” He broke off, and Rory looked up quickly, surprised to find that Fernald was crying too. 

“I won’t let anything else happen to you--” Fernald shook his head miserably. “God, why would you ever believe me when I let this happen?”

Rory forced themselves to take a deep breath. “I’m--I’m okay,” they managed, their voice shaky. Fernald was trying, without much success, to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his leather jacket. Rory help up a clean corner of their towel in offering. When Fernald nodded, they gently wiped away his tears. 

“Don’t cry,” they pleaded. “It’s really not that deep, except for here.” They indicated the cut on their arm, and went on, a bit incoherently, “I think--Olaf--mostly it was just for show. To get to you.” 

There was something important, something they’d thought of in the back of their mind while Olaf had been talking, something that needed to be said. Now they remembered. 

“You know I would have been been upset if he’d done anything to you, right? Like, a lot. Even if he said I wouldn’t. I do have feelings,” they said, “even if I’m not always great at, um, expressing them.”

Fernald gave a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Oh, honey, I know that. Olaf was just being needlessly cruel. God, you’re still bleeding and _that’s_ what you’re worried about? That I think you don’t care?”

“I wouldn’t want you to believe it.”

“Come here.” Fernald pulled them closer, holding them tight against his chest. Even though the cuts still hurt, of course, Rory found that they were beginning to calm down as Fernald held them. They wished they could make him feel better, too.

“Of course I know you care about me,” he went on. “You came all the way here to find me, and...somehow you still believe in me, even though you probably shouldn’t.”

Rory didn’t know how to respond to that, so they just reached up and gently stroked Fernald’s cheek. He gave a sigh and rested his forehead against Rory’s uninjured shoulder. For a few moments, the two sat in silence. 

This was...nice. They could almost, but not quite, forget the fact that the two of them were locked in a bathroom together, at the mercy of their homicidal former employer. Probably it would be a good idea to do something about that. Also, seeking medical attention in the near future seemed like a good plan, even if the bleeding had mostly stopped. 

Rory was about to ask if Fernald had any ideas on how to escape their current predicament when they glanced down and caught sight of the bruises ringing his throat. 

“What happened?” they asked quietly.

“Hmm?” 

“This,” said Rory, gesturing toward Fernald’s neck. “What happened to you?”

He sat up and hurriedly adjusted the collar of his shirt. “Nothing.”

Rory reached out as if to touch him, but stopped and let their hand fall back to their side. “That’s not nothing. Those are bruises. Someone did that to you.”

“It isn’t important.”

“Was it Olaf, or Esme?” they persisted. 

Fernald sighed. “Olaf, but it wasn’t--I mean, it was my own fault. I can understand why he thought--I _did_ go behind his back. After we left Mount Fraught, we ended up capturing a submarine--in another submarine, I mean--and my sister was there, and I tried to help her and Olaf thought--so you see, I really did bring it on myself. I thought he was going to kill me. I think he thought so too, but Fiona--my sister--she stopped him.”

“Where is she now?” asked Rory.

“Fiona? He let her go.”

“He just let her go?” they repeated doubtfully.

“We...made a deal,” said Fernald evasively.

“What kind of a deal?”

Fernald dropped his gaze to the floor. “I told him I’d do anything he wanted.”

Rory was almost afraid to ask, but they were pretty sure they knew the answer already. Suddenly Olaf’s remark-- _you weren’t even that good_ \--began to make a horrible kind of sense. “What _did_ he want?”

“Oh, you know. Just my undying loyalty, and a blowjob.” Fernald laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, don’t look so horrified. I was willing enough.”

“And what exactly would have happened if you’d said no?” they asked, trying to keep their voice neutral, which was harder than it sounded. Fernald _knew_ the nuances of their tone.

“He would have killed her,” said Fernald matter-of-factly. “And me, probably, but I wasn’t so worried about that.”

“So I have to say, that, um, doesn’t sound very consensual to me.”

Fernald scowled and returned to looking at the floor. “Well, it was. I--I wanted to. So now you know what kind of person I am.”

“Yeah, I do know,” said Rory. They leaned closer so that Fernald couldn’t help but glance up to meet their eyes when they continued. “You’re the kind of person who would do anything to save someone you love.”

“I--I guess,” Fernald admitted grudgingly. 

“Let me ask you another question,” said Rory. “What if, hypothetically speaking, he’d made the same “deal” with your sister? How would you feel about that?”

“I’d kill him,” Fernald replied immediately. He frowned. “Oh.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“This is a lot to deal with,” said Fernald. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Once again, Olaf’s statement flashed into Rory’s mind. _You weren’t even that good_. And what exactly had that been in response to? What had Fernald said? _Stop it, I’ll do whatever you want_. They sat back in shock. Had he really meant--?

“Fernald?”

“Hmm?”

Rory knew they had to tread carefully. “A little while ago, when Olaf was--hurting me, and you said you’d do anything he wanted, is that--?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. When he did, his voice was drained of the defiant energy it had held before. “Yes. That’s what I meant.”

“No--that isn’t--” Rory’s voice caught in their throat. “I can’t possibly mean that much to you.”

This time, Fernald met their eyes without hesitation. “You do.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also AU in which Fernald hasn't figured out the chef salad metaphor yet

Fernald wasn’t sure what kind of response he’d expected. Stunned silence? Perhaps. Rejection? Likely. Either deliberate or sincere misinterpretation of his statement as platonic love rather than romantic? Even more likely. 

He hadn’t allowed himself to consider the extremely _unlikely_ possibility of Rory actually kissing him, but that’s what happened. 

It ended too quickly, however, when he tried to embrace them and draw them closer, only for Rory to pull away, wincing in pain. 

“Sorry, sorry,” murmured Fernald. For a second, he’d completely forgotten about their injuries. “Are you okay?”

Rory nodded. “Yeah. But we have to get out of here, like, now.”

“You’re right,” agreed Fernald. “You need to get to a doctor, and besides, Olaf could come back at any minute.”

“Well, that,” Rory agreed, “and also I, um...definitely would like to kiss you some more, but not so much while we’re locked in a hotel bathroom.”

Hearing that gave Fernald a warm, floating feeling. No. Not the time for getting all lovestruck--they needed to find a way out. He stood and tried the doorknob, even though he knew that wouldn’t do any good.

“Why do these doors even lock from the outside, anyway?” Rory wondered out loud. 

“This hotel is a strange place,” said Fernald. “But I’ve got this.” 

With a few well-placed kicks, Fernald quickly smashed open the door into the main room of the suite. Only then did he notice the way Rory was gazing at him in admiration.

“That was, like, totally heroic,” they said in awe. “I’ve never actually seen someone kick down a door before, and I have to admit that normally I find violent behavior upsetting, but…wow.”

Fernald had to fight the overwhelming urge to kiss Rory again. Definitely _not_ the time. The urge vanished when he turned to them and saw their distant, pensive expression.

“What is it?” he asked. 

“I keep thinking...if Olaf did come back.” Rory closed their eyes and clutched their bloodstained towel before looking back up at Fernald. “After everything he’s done to you, I think--I think I would kill him.”

Fernald couldn’t imagine Rory killing anyone--couldn’t even imagine them doing anything violent--but their voice held a startling conviction.

“I know you’re probably thinking I could never kill anyone,” Rory went on. 

Fernald quickly tried to look as if he hadn’t been thinking exactly that. He wasn’t sure whether he was successful.

“And realistically, I know I probably couldn’t actually go through with it,” said Rory, “but right now, I feel like I could. When I say it, when I say I would kill him, I...I mean it.” They looked as if they were about to start tearing up again. “What’s wrong with me? Am I as evil as Olaf?”

“No,” said Fernald firmly. “You aren’t. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’ve never thought you could categorize a person as completely good or completely evil, one thing or the other, the way you might shelve a book as fiction or nonfiction. Most people have some degree of both, like a...like…” He struggled to find an apt comparison.

“Like a didactic morality play?” suggested Rory. “Or an anthology of literary nonfiction?”

“Er...maybe,” said Fernald. "In any case, maybe it isn’t _good_ , but I think it’s pretty normal to feel that way about someone who’s hurt you, or who’s hurt other people that you--that you’re close to. I can’t say I feel any different.” He paused. “Does that help?”

“A little,” said Rory. They managed a smile, and Fernald felt it was more for his sake than theirs. “Come on, let’s get out of here before--”

Their words were cut off by the deafening blare of the hotel’s fire alarms.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring another appearance by the random OC from the first chapter

The two of them exchanged a look. “Olaf,” they said in unison. 

Fernald threw open the door to the hallway. “We have to get out of here.”

In the hallway, a few doors were beginning to open, guests venturing out of their rooms.

“Is there a fire?” asked a man wearing plaid pants, seemingly addressing anyone in the general vicinity.

“It’s probably a false alarm,” said woman holding a guitar. “Worrying about it will only cause stress, and stress leads to sickness. Let’s sing a cheerful song instead!”

“Um...maybe you should, like, actually evacuate the building?” Rory suggested, but neither the man with the plaid pants nor the woman with the guitar took any notice.

“Come on,” said Fernald. Rory hurried after him to the stairwell. After a brief, rather anticlimactic journey down the stairs and out the exterior door, the two found themselves on the street, gazing up at the plumes of smoke rising from the top of the Hotel Denouement. Fernald slid an arm around Rory’s waist as they stood in silence, and for a moment, they allowed themselves to relax. 

But only for a moment. Soon enough, the rest of their problems came crowding back in to their thoughts.

“We need to find the others,” said Rory. “They--oh no--” They broke off as they remembered the search plan.

“What is it?” 

“They were on the upper floors. Maybe they haven’t been able to get out yet.”

“Let’s have a look around,” suggested Fernald.

The crowd gathered outside the hotel was much smaller than expected. The fire brigade had arrived, and pair of firefighters near the front doors appeared to be engaged in some sort of argument with a group of people wearing blindfolds, who didn’t seem to want to leave the building.

The Hotel Denouement really was a very strange place, thought Rory. 

Then, Fernald pointed toward the other side of the crowd. (Again, Rory was struck by the feeling that many of the faces were familiar, or at least should be). There was Arturo, scanning the crowd, looking--worried? 

Rory and Fernald started in his direction. In a moment, Arturo had caught sight of them, and began to make his way through the crowd. 

When they met, Rory was relieved to see that Jenny and Elvira were there, too--they’d merely been out of sight among the much taller bystanders. 

“You never showed up to the basement,” complained Arturo. Then he saw Fernald, and nodded in greeting. “Welcome back.”

The twins were a bit more observant, and their gaze swept uneasily from Rory’s bloodstained dress over to Fernald.

“What happened to you?” asked Jenny.

“Did he do it?” demanded Elvira, rather less tactfully, with a glare at Fernald. Both of the women moved closer to Rory, only a step away from completely blocking Fernald’s path to them.

“What? No, of course not,” Rory said, shocked. “That was Count Olaf. Fernald tried to stop him.”

“No offense intended,” said Jenny hurriedly.

“Only we couldn’t help thinking--” said Elvira.

“After you stayed with Olaf--” continued Jenny.

“Instead of leaving with us--” Elvira went on.

Fernald crossed his arms and dropped his gaze to the pavement, unable to look the others in the face now. “I understand. I wouldn’t trust me, either.” 

Rory stepped past the twins and laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. At that, Fernald did look up. He added, quickly, “But I would never--I _could_ never hurt any of you.”

Rory leaned close to Fernald, and whispered, “You should show them.”

“Show them what?” asked Fernald in confusion. Then: “Oh!”

“If you’re okay with that,” Rory added quickly.

Fernald nodded, took a deep breath, and pulled aside the collar of his shirt to show the bruises on his throat.

For a moment, the rest of the troupe was silent. 

Then Arturo spoke a single word. “Olaf?”

Fernald nodded. 

“So really, he was holding you hostage?” said Elvira.

“Well...not exactly,” said Fernald.

“Kind of,” said Rory. 

“And you rescued him,” said Jenny.

“Well, no…” protested Rory. 

“In a way,” said Fernald. 

“How heroic!” said Jenny dreamily.

“How romantic!” added Elvira.

“That is pretty badass,” admitted Arturo.

“No...I’m not...it isn’t like that,” murmured Rory, embarrassed, but that didn’t stop Fernald from hooking one arm through theirs and pulling them closer, while the twins exchanged a knowing look. 

As the troupe made their way past the police and the fire brigade and away from the burning Hotel Denouement, they happened to pass an elderly woman in brightly-colored robes. She didn’t say anything, but caught Rory’s eye, glanced toward Fernald, and gave an approving thumbs-up.


	8. Chapter 8

The two made a brief stop at a medical clinic--which, in a remarkably convenient coincidence, also had a telegraph available for visitors’ use--where Rory had their wounds cleaned and stitched up, and Fernald sent Fiona a quick explanatory message. 

After that, the two of them ended up at Fernald’s apartment. Mumbling apologies, he hurriedly gathered up discarded clothing from the sofa and swept empty takeout containers from the kitchen table into the trash. Rory stood gazing out the only window, which looked out into the grimy alleyway below. Fernald had the suspicion they were pretending not to notice the horrible state of his apartment as he rushed to tidy up. 

The two of them were finally alone, and now Fernald didn’t know what to say. And still Rory hadn’t turned away from the window.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked.

“Actually, yes.” 

To his surprise, they sounded serious.

“Wait, what?”

“Come here. Look.”

Fernald joined them at the window.

They pointed outside. “See there? The way the mortar is starting to crumble, and there’s moss growing where the air conditioner drips water onto the bricks. Look at the way the brick changes color between shadow and sunlight. The pattern from the shadow of the fire escape. And there, the color in those puddles where there’s motor oil in the water. It’s almost like a landscape painting, like nature reclaiming abandoned ruins, except, you know, in a crowded urban environment.”

Fernald had no idea what to say to that. 

“Sorry,” said Rory. “That probably sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

“No,” said Fernald, and added, truthfully, “I’d never thought of it that way before.”

Silence descended upon them as they both turned away from the window. 

“So…” said Rory after a moment.

“So,” said Fernald, equally unsure how to follow it. 

“Um. About earlier--”

Oh. That’s what this was about. He should have known it. They hadn’t really meant it, had only gone along with it in surprise or out of some sense of obligation, or--Wait. They’d been the one to kiss him, not the other way around. But still, now they probably regretted it and were about to tell him so. 

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking--”

Fernald’s heart sank. He had hoped he was wrong, but this didn’t sound like it.

“--and I realize it was probably too soon after everything that’s happened--”

Oh god, that really was what was happening. Fernald slumped dejectedly into an armchair and waited for the rest.

“--and I was probably being too forward--”

He knew it. He should have known from the beginning.

“--but on the chance that I wasn’t, is it okay if I kiss you again?”

“I--what?” Fernald almost couldn’t believe it. “You thought--of course you can!” He started to stand, but Rory took a seat, perching on the arm of his chair, and leaned down to kiss him softly. Suddenly, he needed them to be much closer, needed to hold them in his arms.

“Come here, love,” said Fernald, and carefully drew them into his lap. “Is this all right?”

“Yeah, definitely.” They moved to place an arm around him but froze, wincing and trying to find a way to comfortably position their shoulder.

“Be careful,” said Fernald. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m okay,” said Rory. “You’ll just have to be gentle with me.”

Whether Rory had meant that to sound suggestive or not, that was where Fernald’s mind went.

“I--er--that is--” He couldn’t help but stumble over his words. 

Rory gave the tiniest hint of a smile and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “It’s okay. I was mostly kidding. I know you’re probably not up for anything beyond this right now.”

Whether that was true or not, Fernald wasn’t sure, but he was sure that he wanted to kiss them again, so he did. And before long, he couldn’t help but notice the way that Rory shifted in his lap, and gave little sighs as if they were trying to keep quiet, and their hand that wasn’t caressing his face was gripping the arm of the chair hard, their fingertips digging into the upholstery. 

“Are you getting turned on by this?” asked Fernald.

Rory looked guilty. “N-no! I mean, maybe a little, but I like what we’re doing now. This is totally fine. I don’t want you to think--”

“It’s okay,” he told them. “I am, too.”

“Oh. Do you want--” Rory paused to consider. “What _do_ you want?”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Fernald. He looked up at Rory’s puzzled expression and gave them a gentle, reassuring kiss. “Don’t worry, love. Let’s just take it slowly. For once, we have plenty of time.”


End file.
